Worship in the House of Strider
by Chain of Prospit
Summary: Bro Strider is a Catholic priest, and his younger brother Dave is about reaching the age when he'll start training with the church to follow in Bro's footsteps. Dave knows the book, he follows the creed, and he's got a rad rockin' relationship with the big man upstairs - he's all set to grow up and join the clergy. There's just one little thing they need to work out first...
1. Temptation

Notes: For Ian (fullofsinfullust on Tumblr). Disclaimer: No disrespect meant to the Roman Catholic Church or religion. All references to Roman Catholicism are based off of my own research and may not be accurate.

* * *

It is dark, and late. The church is quiet. He steps in, shrugs off his jacket, drapes it over the nearest bench. Wait. Reaches for it again. No - leaves it there.

Yes. Okay.

He pulls off his sunglasses cautiously, glancing around as he folds them shut and hooks them on his collar. He normally leaves them on, but now it is long after hours and too dark for that. He feels naked suddenly and tugs down his sleeve ends as though cold. The faint moonlit reflections on the floor echo ghosts of color from the stained glass windows surrounding. _The house of God is glorious_, he thinks.

Turning his head round again as though to reorient himself, he pauses before stepping towards the confession booths.

Is anyone even here?

He reminds himself what he has been taught: _God is always listening._ Fusses with the edge of his sleeve. Steps inside.

It's a different place at night; louder (via silence) and more judging. And pitch black. No knots in the wood to stare at. Even his fingernails aren't visible. He is utterly conscious of the sound of breathing and tries not to wonder if it's his own or some listener's. The pulse thudding in his ears definitely belongs to him. He shuts the latch on the door belatedly and clears his throat.

_Is that the wood groaning beneath his feet, or the shifting weight of a priest on the other side?_ He lids his thoughts, banishing them until later.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he states in a low murmur.

No response. Just him and God, then?

He takes another deep breath. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I have experienced... lustful thoughts; terrible, sinful thoughts... and I don't know where they come from. I try to resist, I swear, but they keep tempting me - taunting me..."

The slight echo in the silence is almost unnerving, and he pauses a second to listen. Swallows.

"It gets worse, Father."

Waits. Nothing. Continues.

"It's... my brother."

Was that his own feet causing that squeaking in the floorboards, a nervous shift?

"I... I'm attracted to my brother, my older brother. These thoughts, I'm having them about him and I know I shouldn't be. I know that. He's a man of God, he's my brother, he raised me. He's an adult, he's, he's male. To be full of sinful lust is bad... But for him, it's so much worse... I can't banish these thoughts, I, I don't know why, these vivid images, I just - "

"What thoughts?"

_Holy shit, there's someone there._ The priest sounds familiar, but he can't put his finger on it. Not that it matters. He surprisingly feels more compelled to continue, to spill out his sins and be judged. He needs to feel judged, punished, cleansed... and subsequently, forgiven. He wants this to be removed from his shoulders and taken into someone else's, cleaner, hands.

"Sexual thoughts, Father," he says almost eagerly. "I think of him... engaging with me. In ways that are... wrong."

"Tell me more," says the voice, soft but somewhat gravelly in timbre.

He begins to become more aware of his current hypersensitive state, the itch of remembered desire stirring in his core. Shit. He closes his eyes and bites the tip of his tongue briefly.

"Doing things to me..." he says slowly. "I'm, you know, revealed, and... He might be, like, stroking me... Touching me..."

His fingers grasp at the front of his jeans reflexively, breath quivering with the effort of resistance. He forces himself to swallow. Doesn't remove his hand.

Suddenly he is pressed against the wall - oh god, the priest came in and he didn't hear the wood sliding, stood behind him now; his eyes are open but he can't see and there's hands on his wrists and breath on his neck and a voice saying:

"Relax." A long exhaled word in his ear.

He closes his eyes again, forcing his breath to steady. What is this? A flogging? They don't do that any more, right?

But no, the hands sliding down his sides are gentle. He doesn't say a word, too petrified.

"I can help you," continues the voice softly. "To get rid of these thoughts."

He opens one eye a crack, not that it does any good.

"Tell me exactly what thoughts tempt you, and we will expel them."

He leans his head back, trying to hover it so that it doesn't touch the priest, but as he is soon shifted to press against the wall this is a lost effort. One of the priest's hands has found his own, and soon guides it up and then beneath the denim waistband of his pants. His breath hitches as the hands slide down, cupping his crotch through his boxers.

"I..." Oh God. "I'm with my brother. And he's... he's punishing me for something. I don't know what."

Both sets of fingers stretch, grasping him fully.

"But he does something different this time... He undoes my jeans... and starts, ah, stroking me." And Lord help him the hands are following his words, gripping and stroking him forcefully, causing his voice to tremble as he goes on: "He's, s-stroking and pleasuring me, and I... He's..."

His own hand can't keep a good grip any more, not when the other is so firm and skilled, and so he presses it against the wall instead, allowing the priest to take full control. "R-rubbing..." God, he's being pumped, and he can't manage a voice any longer either, just bites his lip to stifle breathy moans, pushing and grinding against the other's palm and wide fingers. He twists his head back in pleasure and his cheek brushes the priest's, which is a bit scratchy and utterly familiar and he knows instantly that it is _him_, _he_ is in there with him, stroking him, pulling him taut to the edge until -

"Bro!" he yelps and awakens, gasping, torso compelled forward and up and eyes flying open to find himself alone in sticky sheets, skin damp with sweat. He reorients himself quickly. It's his own bed, a sinful dream, and shit is that footsteps?

Bro opens the door, leaning half in with a concerned look. "Dave?" he asks. "What were you yelling for?"

Dave is wide-eyed and glad he sleeps with his glasses on, staring at Bro with flushed heat tainting his neck and jaw. "Y-yeah?" What? Oh, fuck. "Oh - I, uh, I was just, wondering."

Bro stares at him, tilting his head. His uniform is half undone, he must have been in the middle of buttoning it.

"When..." He is grasping at straws here. "When... to be at church today."

Bro visibly relaxes. "I'll come getcha when you need to get ready, kid," he says.

Dave nods heavily, swallows. "Yeah... okay."

A wry smile, and the door begins to shut. But not before Bro peeks out one more time, hair mussed still but shades on. "Oh, lil man?"

Dave jerks his gaze back up at him.

"Your lip is bleeding."


	2. Shame

"I saw your video on the church website," chirps John Egbert when Dave enters the congregation of altar servers. The church is still relatively empty at this hour, and the altar boys present there are conversing quietly in groups. Dave is still harried and a bit distracted from the previous night's dream, wondering if something is still a sin if he can't technically control it.

"What?" He watches for his brother behind his shades, but he doesn't seem to be in sight. Just Jake English, the youth minister, chatting with someone at the back of the pews.

"The music video," clarifies John. "It was so cool. Congratulations, you actually managed to rap to God without being a total tool."

Oh right, that. He's forgotten they were supposed to put it up over the weekend.

"Yeah? I think they're taking it to some local schools or some shtick, supposed to popularize the church or something, I dunno..."

John is looking at him curiously now, and Dave halts his ocular search to give him his full attention. "Do you really pray like that?" the former asks.

Dave shrugs. "Sometimes."

"That's actually so wicked." John sighs, picking at some scab on his thumb. "Too bad no one actually goes on the website."

"Like I need to be known as the local rap star," grumbles Dave. He's being honest, but there's more to his opinion than that. He actually enjoys talking to God the way he does; expressing himself in faith and craft simultaneously. But he doesn't want to be known for it. He would rather uphold Bro's legacy first and foremost. This house of worship hadn't been as popular in decades, not until he started preaching. Bro is a natural with words; sometimes Dave wonders why he chose his career so late. He knows he has a bit of a past, but not much beyond that.

"Yeah, well, right now you're just going to be known as Pastor Strider's little brother," acknowledges John, echoing his thoughts. "How was today? Have you got all the rituals memorized?"

"I've been memorizing rituals since I was four."

"Fair enough."

Today's the day, the starting day where Bro begins to train him as a servant of the Lord, beginning with serving the altar. He's grouped with the other altar boys for now, but officially he'll be considered an acolyte: predetermined for ascension to higher service. (In the traditional manner, he'll likely be a deacon first. Unlike John's dad, though, who has been a long-time deacon at the church, Dave will move on and become a priest like Bro, potentially someday taking over his position as pastor and preaching to the masses.) And true enough, he has every detail memorized - but this only proves to make it easier for him to disappear into his thoughts, which are fraught with images of dark and hot sensation, rustling cloth and throaty pants that belong to

"Hey Dirk!"

It's Jake speaking, at the other end of the pews, but Dave picks it up immediately and turns his head to see. Jake is the the only one who calls him by his birth name, but sure enough, it's Bro entering from the far halls, hatless and in perfectly presentable position. Certainly no sign of him sensually teasing ecstasy out of his younger brother in the dream world last night. Like he'd know.

The older folk Jake had been talking to wander off to examine the bulletin board now, and Bro and Jake walk up the aisle together towards Dave. John has suddenly disappeared somewhere a yard or three to Dave's posterior. He's had a great big hero crush on Jake for as long as anyone can remember, and can often be heard ranting about how the spirited minister is the "coolest guy ever." Dave rolls his eyes behind his glasses and straightens out the cloth he's wearing the best he can.

"Looking good, kiddo," says Bro approvingly when he meets him, and Dave swallows to assuage the heat under his collar. "Real smart. Keep it up."

"I'll say!" gushes Jake beside him, arm half-draped around his brother and looking, as usual, terribly enthusiastic. "Saw your video, lil man - loved it! That's just exactly what we need. I wish there were more coolkids like you spreading the word of Christ. You've really got a way of presentation!"

"Thanks," mumbles Dave. He isn't sure how seriously to take the compliment. Jake has always had a soft spot for him.

"Ah-ah, speak clearly," corrects Bro softly, lifting Dave's chin with forefinger and thumb. _Shit. Shit shit shit. Look away._ "Can't preach someday if you don't learn to talk so people can hear you."

"Yes, sir," Dave manages in a stronger tone.

"Much better," says Bro, dropping his hand. He moves on to greet the rest of the boys while Jake waves at John, who pretends he doesn't notice and dives into the crowd.

Dave occupies himself with straightening one of the buttons down his front. More people are filing in. It'll probably be a full house today. He's sure there's some fancy presentation prepared; surely no one will notice, though, a new altar boy in the crowd? All long-timers know about the Striders and the younger brother's condition, but he is suddenly hyperconscious about the dark shades that protect his eyes. Will some relatively new stranger pick him out from amongst the others and disapprove? God, he needs to stop worrying. He delves his hand into his pocket and squeezes a small carved stone token there.

_The Lord will guide you_, he reminds himself. His eyes shut tightly and he repeats the reminder a few times in his head. _The Lord will guide you, the Lord will guide you, the Lord will not embarrass you or lead you astray..._

Fuck he sure hopes the Lord is paying attention today.

There is a squeaking of rubber soles and the amplified fumble of fingers brushing against a microphone. Oh, shit. He backs up into line, one server down from John. Pats his hair down.

"Welcome, everyone," begins Bro.

It is dark, and late. The church is quiet. He steps in, shrugs off his jacket, carries it this time to the front of the pews, folds it neatly and lowers himself to lay it flat on the ground. He was here hours earlier, serving the altar, practicing the rituals, everything he has been raised to do. It went well, relatively. Got a bunch of compliments from old people as well as a scathing glance from a four year old.

No one is here this late, and he is aware of it now, unlike in the dream. He kneels before the crucifix and allows himself to be swelled over with shame. Lord above him, what had he been thinking? The dreams were surely sent by the devil to tempt him, and by taking them seriously he was demeaning the work and love of God.

He slides off his sunglasses and folds them shut, placing them on top of his jacket. Pulls out his rosary, thumbs the comforting beads there, squeezes it tight - lowers his head.

It is time to pray.

_Dear Father and Son and Holy Spirit, I come to you tonight..._

(Dave remains in this position for coming up on a full hour. After, he feels like Bro, who used to while away multiple hours each day simply kneeling in silence, entreating his Lord for God knows what - literally. But unlike Bro he doesn't find himself peaceful and satisfied after this session. Instead he returns home in crooked shades and huddled beneath his jacket, bathing that night with bruised knees.

His prayer doesn't feel good enough.

He'll have to make a new one. A true one. A prayer only he can perform.)

It is Friday; the end of the week is nearing. Nothing much has changed; he's gotten used to most of the other altar servers and has almost-kind-of befriended a couple of the attendants called Scott and Ross. They have a break now, and he's considering using his relationship to Bro to get into one of the private clergy rooms, where he knows they stock apple juice in the fridge. John catches his calculating look and steps up to him to tug at his sleeve inconspicuously.

"Dude, they totally have an unopened orange soda on the table over there," he says, nudging his chin in that direction. "Probably warm, but better than nothing!"

"I will die without apple juice," says Dave vaguely. John disappears, and in moments returns with a can that he shoves into Dave's hands. Dave rolls his eyes and walks over to the stage stairs, leaning against the railing. He lifts the can to his lips and licks off a drop of the orange soda fizz, but doesn't drink any.

"Three now," he says.

John squints at him, then widens his bespectacled eyes. "Oh shoot another dream?"

"Yeah." Dave frowns up at the ceiling. It's his third one - well, third unique scenario - and after the second night he told John for some stupid reason. They are each other's default companions at church, but they hadn't spent real time together outside of it for something like years. They were childhood best friends, nothing more.

Nevertheless, it was to him that Dave confessed his sinful dreams. Not, however, what or who were in them.

"Dude that's totally cray," says John with a sigh, resting his back against the opposite rail. "Have you finished your prayer yet?"

"Not yet." Soon, though. He is almost there and he can feel his tongue curling in anticipation. He sets the orange soda down beside him. John is opening some soda can of his own; a grape variety he snatched from somewhere.

"I wanna hear it when it's done, yeah?" he says brightly, taking a sip.

"Like Hell." Ah, whoops. The lashing flees his lips before he can stop it and he almost feels bad, but his sense of self preservation is stronger. No one on God's great earth would ever hear what happened in his mind. No one. Not a priest, not a best friend, not a fucking lame dog or so much as a bumblebee.

John looks vaguely offended. Dave picks up his soda again and downs several long swallows. "Gotta go," he mutters. He straightens and steps deftly out into the crowd, delving into obscurity.

In the bathroom for the next twenty minutes he locks himself in a stall and remembers. Strong, calloused hands; soft, warm breath; and the slick, flexible tongue in his throat being replaced by something a lot larger and a lot more sinful. He massages his throat so as not to be tempted to start fondling somewhere lower.

Gracious God please let this prayer work.

* * *

Notes: Fun fact: Bro's callouses are from working as a gardener for the church. He spent a lot of time upkeeping the grounds, keeping the lawns tidy, and tending to the fruits and flowers.


	3. Confession

Chapter 3: Confession

Notes: Apologies in advance for terribly, terribly written rap. Catholic rap. Catholic incestual rap.

* * *

It is dark, and late. The church is quiet. He steps in, shrugs off his jacket, leaves it on the table by the entrance this time. No one will be here. No one ever is. He doesn't take off his glasses. He does, however, pull on something extra - headphones, the expensive over-the-ear kind that Bro got him for his birthday once. His iPod is in his pocket, nestled alongside a heavily crumpled and smeared page of notebook paper. The lines are riddled with written verse, many parts crossed out and rewritten, or added in via arrows in the margins. He won't need to look at it. It's there for comfort only.

He kneels again in his place, the feeling oddly comforting, like his knees have found their home again. He supposes he's been coming here a little too often. Not that prayer is a crime.

_No, but lusting after your brother is._

It's Saturday night, close enough to the witching hour to be considered almost Sabbath Day. Good planning on his part; he figures the holier the place and time of prayer, the louder it will be to God's ears.

It helps that he mixed his with some really good music.

He thumbs the MP3. Uncharged, but 27% battery is plenty enough. Adjusts the band of his headphones to make sure they stay securely on. Not being able to hear the proper hollow silence of the church is a bit strange. His ears fill with a low buzzing to make up for the loss of it.

He clicks the play button.

Waits a moment. Closes his eyes. Swallows. Parts his lips, prepares to murmur, remembers Bro scolding him - determines to speak clearly. God might appreciate the effort.

"i wanna start this with a beat and a drop and the thum of a drum  
but the thumps not enough to stop the pumping of my pulse  
im full not done wanna pull another one  
looking up to the heavens thinkin now i gotta run

"gotta run  
from the sun and the father and the holy one  
i want to hide from my sin want to box the devil in  
but i cant run i cant hide cant flee from the night  
cant breathe cant see cant fall to my knees  
not in dreams dangerous with my skin flush with lust  
as im thinking of my brother in a way reserved for lovers

"gotta run  
gotta run  
run from what i know is wrong from the slick of my flesh from the salt of my sweat  
familiarity of his body hotter than a maserati  
theres a groan from my groin as our limbs are adjoined  
and oh brother  
got it coming  
got it coming for me  
good lord please im crying for you set me free

"hes a priest im a sinner borderline stretching thinner  
all the want in my head cradled up in waking dread  
cos i cant need his touch cant delude myself this much gotta break from the dream  
not as real as it seems just a sick demonic meme  
gotta fight gotta run  
lift my head up to the sun  
pray to lord my only one  
make it done, make it done  
make it done"

The last word leaves an echo that even he can hear, hanging in the air like a drifting silken thread from a spider web. He pauses to savor it, licking his dry lips and shaking his head a bit to allow his now-crooked headphones to slide off his ears. Takes in a cool breath. God has to answer his prayers now, right?

His eyelids draw open like a curtain lazily. And then fast like a gunshot.

It's an angel, standing right in front of him, here to save him, _Christ almighty he's summoned a genuine messenger of God, here, in this church, - !_

The angel lowers itself to Dave's frozen position (oh fuck, when did he scramble back like that?), crouching directly in front of him. His sunglasses slide off his nose and he expects them to clatter to the floor but they land safely in his lap, leaving the air still with anticlimax.

A beam of moonlight graces the angel's face and Dave realizes that it's his brother.

"Shh," he says, eyebrows furrowed but eyes gentle. "We'll get you help."

Shame and relief wash over Dave all at once and he leans forward, falling into Bro's arms. He has no idea why he is here and would have rather died than tell him, but dear God he knows now, he knows and says he'll help him and he's caressing his back, good fuck he's attracted to him but now that'll get better, it'll have to; if anyone knows anything about redemption from sin it is Bro.

And shit he's crying. Whatever. "It's okay, kid, we'll work through this together," Bro is murmuring, and he believes him he thinks.

"Christ I'm so bad," he mumbles into his shoulder.

"You're not," scolds Bro gently. "You've just been frustrated with temptation. Everyone experiences this, all right, and I will personally ensure that it will be thoroughly defeated. God won't leave you, okay? And neither will I."

He nods pathetically against him. _This would really be easier if Bro weren't so utterly attractive._ He'd have to do with not looking.

They remain on the floor of the church for a minute, but Bro eventually rises and, taking Dave's hands, helps pull him up.

"Come on," he says softly. "You'll take tomorrow off. We'll talk then."

They walk to the door together, Dave's glasses left forgotten on the wood behind them.

The next day is a lot harder when Dave awakens with a painful boner and Bro accidentally knocks his head on the doorframe when he notices it. He can't actually remember what he was dreaming about last night, much to Bro's frustration when he questions him over breakfast; all he remembers is chains and a plank, or, more likely, a paddle. He half-heartedly suggests that maybe it is a metaphor where he is being punished for his sin.

He can tell even Bro knows that, in reality, his imagination is just a kinky motherfucker.

They decide he should probably put in some extra prayer this morning and attend a slightly later Mass. They'll convene later in the afternoon to work out a game plan. Bro ruffles his hair fondly and lets him borrow his own pointy glasses when they realize that Dave left his at the church. He leaves him with a comforting shoulder pat and an encouraging look.

Thirty Bible verses, six prayers (two only half finished), and a very cold shower later, Dave sneaks in through the side door of the church, a few minutes late to Mass. He manages to snag a spot in the very corner of the front row, which allows him to slide off Bro's borrowed glasses and watch with unshielded eyes. (He doesn't notice the way his fingers caress the shades as they sit in his lap.) The light that he's so unused to is a bit blinding, and sears through the stained glass windows in a brighter manner than one would expect; to him, at least. Bro's figure upon the stage is crowned in something like a halo and he almost wonders if his brother is some sort of angel after all. Sent to tempt and trial him to test if he is strong enough to resist sin.

He isn't sure that he is.

But that's irrelevant now. Now it's worship in the house of God and all is calm. He listens with closed eyes for a while, hands folded and fingers methodically stroking the the glass edges of Bro's shades.

_Oh, shit._ He realizes that he's sliced the skin of his thumb a bit on the sharp edge of the glasses. It's nothing bad, just above the level of a papercut, but it's bleeding a bit and he hopes he hasn't gotten any on the spectacles. With now unlidded eyes, he lifts his thumb to his lips, suckling the cut and staring vaguely up at the stage. Timing coincides and his stare intercepts Bro's as he turns to walk his direction - and stops.

His eyes remain locked with a faint confusion as he realizes Bro's just stumbled over his words. Wha - is this because of him? He drops his thumb and leaves his lips slightly parted. Bro picks up speaking again, but remains glancing at him for just a moment longer.

What was that?

He licks his uninjured thumb and wipes the edge of the glasses.

_This might be a hard job._

This is definitely a hard job.

It feels like a recovery training plan from an athletic injury. They're putting together schedules, exercises, time off - it's all very well thought out, and Dave has Bro to thank for that.

"Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, you'll attend your services normally," Bro instructs. "Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sunday evenings you take off. Those will be your days with me. We will work through this privately, together, and on a personal basis, okay?"

Dave nods, unable to protest even if he wanted to.

"Take your Bible with you everywhere. If you start to experience temptation, read it. From the beginning. Memorize every verse you read."

He's not sure whether to feel dread or appreciation. Trying to work his way through that text would certainly kill his boner, that's for sure.

"You must be completely open and honest. Every dream you have, every... fantasy or desire or feeling, you must tell me immediately. And don't leave anything out. Any detail could be important. You've got to tell me every single thing, okay?"

He isn't sure whether to be embarrassed or turned on by this prospect. The fact that the latter is a viable option is a bit terrifying. He decides he'd rather just be embarrassed. Or ignore it.

It's the last condition, however, that is finally able to elicit genuine discomfort.

"And, Dave? ...Don't tell anybody about this. Any of it."

As if his mind weren't conflicted enough before, the buzzing only busies at this. Is Bro ashamed? Is he trying to keep him from judgment? Is his crime so terrible that no one else can know or they would be kicked out? He doesn't know how to feel about this. Yeah, he knows the tenets of the Catholic religion by heart, but experiencing trespasses in real time is a bit different. He's not sure how people will actually treat it. How God might truly judge him.

He hasn't committed mortal sin... yet. But to lust in a way more forbidden than any common desire...

He feels sick.

When it is finally his turn to muster up the ability to speak, he only asks one thing.

"Bro, how... are we gonna fix it?"

He only realizes that he was fearing an 'I don't know, kid' after Bro ruffles his hair and says, "Simple psychology." It is somehow an immense relief that he has an answer at all, even if Dave's not sure what he means by that.

"What kind of psychology?" Is he going to hypnotize him or something? Wow God he should really stop feeling strangely attracted to those scenarios. His perversion was bad enough already.

"Well," says Bro in his gentle drawl. "We'll just start with conditioning. That's how they rid people of phobias and other mental blocks, you know. Say a person is afraid of spiders. To solve that, you start making a person comfortable with spiders in various settings. First you get them to look at one, then to be in the same room, then to touch one, and then to let one crawl on you. The more you are exposed to the situation in a controlled setting, the less it affects you."

Dave bites the corner of his lip, trying to wrap his mind around this scenario.

"Now think of it reversed," suggests Bro. "Instead of a fear of spiders, say it's an attraction to..."

"Striders," Dave finishes wryly. Bro smirks softly at this.

"Exactly right."

"So, by exposing me to..." Here Dave licks his lips nervously and concentrates on the wall. "... you?"

Bro rubs the back of his neck. "... what triggers you, yeah."

Dave purses his lips, attempting to connect the chain of process. "Then, I get like... desensitized."

"Exactly. You've got the idea, kiddo."

Dave nods slowly. "And that'll make me... not want it."

Bro lets out a soft breath, an almost-but-not-quite whistle. "That's the plan."

Dave stares at his lap, glad he did end up retrieving his sunglasses from the church. This is sounding all too appealing and he hopes it works quickly, because otherwise he might just get addicted to the trials that were supposed to be turning him off. It doesn't matter if he's eager now, though, right? Because Bro's lessons will work, of course, and that will just end up causing him to get better. So it's okay. Healthy, even. Sort of. Right?

God he hopes so.

"When do we start?" he musters with a dry throat.

Bro puts his hands on Dave's shoulders as he often does, but he realizes a second too late that this grip is now deliberate, an intentional touch meant precisely for him. He isn't sure how he feels about this but isn't about to protest. Just stares, trying not to breathe.

Bro musses up his hair and stands.

"Get to bed early tonight."

* * *

Notes: Fun fact: Bro actually has a phobia that he hasn't yet overcome.


	4. Distraction

Notes: So the lovely J-chan (Tumblr user hellbound-gatestuck) not only plans great dates, but runs a fab voice blog which she has now honored me with by recording the first two chapters of WitHoS. ;3 Link here: tagged/worship%20in%20the%20house%20of%20strider And since I'm giving out links I guess it might be prudent to mention that my writing blog is the Tumblr url c-h-a-i-n-letters. uu' I might post on that blog when I'm late on chapters or some such thing if you want to get updates.

* * *

"So, what exactly are these private lessons your bro is giving you?"

"Cooking lessons," says Dave in a spotting imitation of his brother's trademark drawl.

John blinks. "What, really?"

"No." Dave scoffs. "It's a secret, dude, wait 'till we're done. You can find out then."

"Dude, you're so mysterious sometimes," says John conversationally. "You're kind of a giant tool with it to be honest."

"Please, no autographs." His lips are flatlined in unamusement, but he doesn't terribly mind. His forthrightness is kind of what makes Dave allow him to spend so much time around him.

"Uuuugh when is this even gonna start..." John groans loudly and lies across Dave's lap. He flinches a bit, still sensitive from this morning's dream, which, to be perfectly honest, had stepped up a little in the terms of Surface Area Touching.

And... inside area touching.

"Sorry," yawns John, rolling off him.

"Nah." He would be bored too. Except that he's currently extremely distracted by that recollection of the fantasy.

They are currently waiting on one of the elongated card tables in an activity room occupied entirely by altar boys. Jake is supposed to be here already. They're scheduled to be having a meeting about the upcoming end-of-summer carnival, and he should be the one leading it.

"What's taking so-"

John is cut off by the entrance of someone who is not Jake English. Instead it's a deacon of the church, Deacon Egbert. Also known as John's father. Dave hides a smirk as John bolts upright and slides off the table, running his fingers through his hair.

"Sup Deac," he greets.

"Hey Dad," says John weakly.

Deacon Egbert nods to both of them genially with a fatherly "Hello, boys," and casually strolls to the front of the room. Dave pictures him standing and straightening his tie in a professorly manner, but instead he pulls out one of the plastic chairs and sits in it with wide knees, taking off his fedora and clasping his broad hands underneath his chin. He flashes a very Roger-from-101-Dalmations smile at everyone and they settle down quickly enough.

"Is Father Jake not here today?" inquires one of the surlier boys, one with a strange and unreturned attachment to the man.

"He's found himself busied with a more important duty call, I'm afraid."

The boy leans back, crossing his arms. Dave wonders what the duty call might be.

Deacon Egbert clears his throat softly. "Anyhow, let's get started, shall we?"

A mild tittering.

"As usual, to fund this year's End of Summer Carnival, we'll be hosting a variety of fundraisers, starting this weekend and continuing each Saturday until the Carnival. You've already all received a newsletter regarding these events; now we are meeting for the purpose of organizing volunteer hours and responsibilities."

"What's the first one again?" whispers John to Dave, who only frowns vaguely. Shit if he knew.

"Bake sale," murmurs the surly boy from a few seats left and forward. Apparently overheard.

"Now..." John's father pauses, pulling out a pipe from the inner pocket of his jacket and slipping it past his lips. The deacon is known to chew and mouth his pipe end habitually, though he never smokes inside. "Why don't you all gather closer, m'boys? I'd like to hear your ideas. Let's brainstorm."

The room dissolves into a grating scrape of chairs against the linoleum, and, soon after, discussions of lemon meringue, brownies, and whether it counts if you just buy a large pack of cookies from the grocer. (Hint: It doesn't.) Dave drifts off. His mind is elsewhere.

"We're making tarts," announces Bro.

"Tarts."

"Tarts."

"Is this in lieu of the lesson today?" Dave asks cautiously. It is his first scheduled 'training' time and he isn't sure how to take this development. Is 'tarts' some code name for another activity? Or is he really just skipping it for the sake of the bake sale?

What even is a tart, actually?

"No," says Bro, though - which leads to another question.

"So... um..." This is really kind of awkward. Kind of more than kind of. "... What... is the lesson?"

"It's an exercise," says Bro. "In distraction."

Instantly his stomach pitches, and his mind flashes back to this morning, in which he had described (with much prodding) to Bro his latest dream. This one had involved the church again, with Dave in the listening booth this time, hearing confessions... and doling out punishments while Bro was 'attending' to his lower half. He had called it that. An exercise in distraction.

_Whoops._

Right. Anyway. He runs his fingers through his hair, toys with it behind his ears. Stares at the wood of the kitchen table. "And ah. Whaaat kind of distraction is uh... distracting me?" Ah ha ha he is clearly so fucking composed.

Bro pauses, and Dave suddenly realizes that he's not the only one feeling the awkwardness that permeates the air. He wonders what it must be like for his brother, having to come up with something to tease another male, having to delve into his sick head... His mouth twitches with guilt and he wonders if he should help. If he knew how.

"Well..." says Bro slowly. "Mild physical and..." (Now it was Bro's jaw twitching subtly, and the way his voice got gruffer and his accent heavier with discomfort.)

"Some kinda visual, I guess."

Dave halts his breathing.

"I'm just ah, gonna need some input on ... that."

_Holy shit this is literally the most embarrassing conversation they have ever participated in,_ Dave thinks. He's getting a weird tingle of what can't be pleasure (but might be) and a twisting of whatever organ lies behind his navel. It would be so un-Christian to take advantage of this... And yet, to get results, the Right Thing to Do was be honest.

I mean, it's always the right thing to do to be honest, Dave reminds himself. God said so.

And then he starts getting that the hard part is actually saying it. (How does Bro do it?) "I guess uh..." Does his voice normally drop when he's nervous? He's never noticed. "... Less is m-more, or something?" He winces internally, cursing the betraying stutter. Hopes Bro will dismiss it.

Bro nods with a heavy set jaw, and Dave can only think of the normal uncomfortable conversations parents usually have with their kids, and that this is how it must look. Except that the kid probably wasn't generally praying devoutly not to spring a hard-on.

"Go get your Bible," says Bro finally. He scrapes back his chair loudly with a twitch where his brow meets his cheekbone, and walks to the kitchen, beginning to gather an assortment of ingredients without any further word. Dave allows himself to watch for exactly one and a half seconds, then scrambles out of his chair and bolts for his room. Bible time. Learning time. Lesson time. Resistance time.

Let's-play-'Try-Not-To-Get-A-Boner-Dave' time.

_Ahhhhhahahah. Ha. Haha. ... fuck._

The book is in his nightstand drawer.

His Bible is blue and old and textured. He's had it since he was a kid. Somewhere in there is crayon drawings of dinosaurs and apple juice stains. The binding has some scratches, some fraying - it's a bit battered.

And it might be getting battered a teeny bit more. Just a tad. What with his fingernails digging into the cover at the moment reflexively, a reaction to the sight of Bro standing in their kitchen shirtless and in utterly sinful jeans that cling to his calves and sit low on his hips.

Did he mention, "fuck"?

"O-oh," he lets out softly. Bro turns to glance at him. He's holding two aprons.

"Which one do you want?" he queries.

Dave is too distracted to pay much attention. "Uh, the red one."

Bro tosses this to him, tying his own (a half-apron with an orange checkered trim) around his waist. He's also taped up a recipe, Dave notices, on the cabinet above the counter. It looks to be a bit old. He ties on his (full-length) apron on quickly, moving to stand over by Bro.

"Open to Matthew 26."

Dave flips open his Bible on the counter to the proper page. Bro stands behind him. Right behind him. Against him.

He suddenly can't remember what the number was. Until he realizes what passage his brother is referring to. _Oh._

"Measure out three cups of flour, and one and a half teaspoons each of salt and sugar."

_What?_

Oh, right, they're making tarts. Now? How even... He pushes the anxiety aside. "Okay." Reaches for the flour and cups. Bro's hands move to his hips.

His wrist is a little unsteady now but he ignores that (and the warm breath on the back of his skull) and pours out one... two... three cups, dumps them in the bowl. Reaches for the teaspoon. Realizes that this isn't him acting in a dream and Bro is actually touching him.

Drops the teaspoon.

"Pay attention," warns Bro.

Dave winces. Test 1 failed. (The hands are still there.) He tries again and manages both the salt and the sugar.

It keeps going.

The butter bit is particularly embarrassing, as the recipe apparently calls for rubbing it into the flour with his bare fingers, and Bro decides to help with that. Leaning over his shoulder. There's more mixing, kneading. (That bit is a good way to get out the stress that Bro's hips pressed into his tailbone arouses.) While the dough chills, there's the cream. Milk, sugar, vanilla bean, pans and stoves - Dave burns his self and falls for at least a minute and a half into a vivid fantasy of Bro suckling his injured finger and some interactions that are heated in a much more enjoyable way following.

It's a game, he finds; a horrible, torturous, really huge turn on of a game set up like a large set of scales. Trying to balance out his wins and losses, the times he can withstand and receives the reward of more contact versus the times he gives in and presses back or falls to distraction and is scolded. It doesn't help that the kitchen is rife with sweet aromas and sugars and warm milk and heat - and he's trying very hard to keep on his toes but he hardly knows what's a victory, just that the daze of his mind is as mixed up as the various powders and eggs that will be tart shells soon enough.

And that Bro is standing right in front of him, not chastising him verbally but his eyes are nothing if not scolding him for being distracted from the current step (they're on the glaze, which involves apricot jam and water, and Bro has had him taste the jam for testing and there was still a bit on his lip and he licked it off but now he is thinking of lips and staring at his brother's stoic face) - and he can't breathe that well not for nervousness but because his breath is mingling with Bro's and hello your face is awfully close and was this test or temptation or both?

He does something very stupid and kisses him.

* * *

Notes: Fun fact: The recipe Bro is using is from 2010/06/15/fruit_tart_of_my_nightmares/ Also I didn't read over this chapter at all. It was literally forced through writer's block. So... sorry. 0w0


	5. Temperance

Notes: Not really sure what was up with this chapter or it taking so long, but I like the first half at least. Hope you do too! Sorry for the long wait.

* * *

Bro doesn't pull away.

Dave feels brave now, so brave, intoxicated with the scent of vanilla and lemon zest, sugar on his tongue. He stands on his tip toes and presses his lips harder against Bro's, and Bro responds not with a hand in his hair or a palm against his neck but with his lower half, hips, wide and hard, which propel forward to trap Dave's thinner frame against the faux stone countertop.

There's a hand at last - ah, sliding past his waist to spread flat against the cooking surface, keeping his balance as he leans forward - rather arching Dave's back but he hardly protests, preferring to wrap his arms securely around his brother's torso and ah yes there it is, more lips. Warm and drier than his, and, accompanied with the bristle of stubble, more aggressive. Dissatisfied with the amount of contact, Dave moves his teeth, tries to nip or nibble at Bro's mouth. The response is greater than the provocation; Bro bites down on Dave's lower lip. It hurts but he can feel the temperature of his groin rise, and his pelvis attempts half a wriggle beneath its captor's.

A new hand, at his back now - but instead of pulling him closer, it tugs him away from the counter and spins him around with some force. He is now pressed against the edge of the stove, with Bro's body taut against him from behind - a common theme, he's noticing. Bro's other hand slides down his arm and guides his own to a wooden spoon, leading him to grip and dip it in the saucepan currently on the stove. Is this still cooking? Dave doesn't have time to wonder. Not when Bro's hands retreat and replace themselves on either side of his tailbone, sliding under the fabric of his shirt. They explore his bare back underneath the fabric, pushing it up slowly, thoughtfully. Dave shuts his eyes and bites his tongue, trying not to breathe. His fingers find a nerve not far beneath the nape of his neck and he pitches forward slightly, with a lurch of the stomach and half a pant.

A hand lifts to pick up Dave's spare one, moves it to the spoon. He now has a double handed grip upon it. His fingers are folded tightly but his forearms have trouble stifling a quiver. The barely present stream of air exhaled between Bro's teeth and against Dave's spine sees to that. And then the air isn't there at all - it is replaced by a very solid heat, that of Bro's lips, pressed against his skin. He clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from clacking against one another. Bro moves his lips, almost mouthing against him, but not idly; his teeth soon gain grip upon his flesh, nipping sharply, tongue darting out after each bite to lick the bit skin. It's exploring him, the mouth, and drawing small red hot tendrils of some buzz to his muscles. It trails between his scapulas, draws back, reattaches itself higher at the base of his neck. The spoon in his hands is clattering loudly against the saucepan now.

"Stir," commands a whispered breath in his ear.

Oh, fuck. He takes a deep breath and moves the utensil the best he can through his quaking arms. There are teeth on his neck again, biting the crook of it and now suckling, and he lets out a soft half-groan half-whimper that dies quickly with the exhaust of his breath. He shuts his eyes, keeps stirring. Hopes his hands are in the right place because he's certainly not looking, not with his neck twisted to one side and aaahhhhhh ffffdaaamn that is sure some broad and leather clad hands on his ass.

Bro's fingers grope his ass cheeks, thumbs stretching wide to firmly grip as much of his flesh as can be encompassed (that is, all of it). What had only been half hard in the front of his pants now seems to be thrumming heartily with arousal, and he's pretty sure his toes are clenched in his socks. Like a mechanical vice, his hands flex and grip him thoroughly, and his whole backside is tingling as his fingers massage him; he didn't know butts could actually be erotically sensitive, and wonders to what extent - Bro's fingertips press firmly into some nerve in the curve where his buttocks met his thighs and his knees' lock promptly breaks as though the spot is a button meant to delete all ability of his legs to properly stand. His sudden loss of support means an actual fall for a brief moment, were it not for Bro's hands, which cup and press him against the oven door, keeping him upright, if barely. Dave's mouth can't seem to close and his tongue is lead.

Bro seems to change his mind about holding him up, though, and suddenly withdraws, allowing Dave to, startled, weakly collapse and fall to his knees with a brief thud. His cheek - the facial one - is pressed against the handle of the oven and his torso is shivering a bit.

"Turn around."

Dave scrambles to regain some ability to move his knees, and scoots around best he could, one hand curled uselessly at his own throat and the other dangling dangerously close to the curve of his ass. He stares up at Bro, who is returning his gaze with no expression. His hand reaches down and holds his chin briefly, then slides down to wrap around his throat. Fingers and thumb press strategic points along his pulse and his jaw slacks, eyes lidding. It feels strangely enjoyable.

Bro unzips his jeans and Dave's eyes fly back open. Oh. Oh. He's grabbing ingredients up there, he can hear him and sort of see the movement of his right arm. His left is reaching into his boxers, moving jerkily, mesmerizing. He steps forward, shifts his hand to reveal his swollen erection. Guides it forward.

"Open," he mutters.

Dave drops his jaw further obediently, sticking out his tongue a bit. Bro lifts his hand, returns to working over the stove, and moves his pelvis forward, his cock brushing against Dave's tongue. Dave pushes his mouth forward, drawing the head in and sealing his lips around it. It's large; it takes a few tries to loose his jaw so that his teeth don't scrape the flesh. He shifts his tongue experimentally, curling it under the head and drawing it back to fondle the opening at the tip. Oh, wow. There's something leaking from there. He sucks. Bro's flesh twitches. Oh.

He swallows his pooled saliva, takes a breath through his nose, and pushes his mouth further down, sucking softly around him. He moves his tongue along the underside of his cock, trying to encompass more of it. Bro's body is not still; he's moving above him busily and he can feel the reverberations of his muscle movements all the way through his flesh. It's a curious sensation. He breathes through his nostrils slowly. Struggles a bit, draws back a centimeter, tries to push forward an inch.

Bro decides to help him out - or experiences a bout of sadism - and reaches a hand down to grip his hair and slowly leads his mouth further on his shaft, his swollen head nudging the entrance to his throat, Dave gagging a little and trying not to struggle. Bro forms his fingers tightly around the base of his skull, and he thinks he can hear him almost grunting. Slightly encouraged, he maintains his hold, wriggles his tongue very slightly, and swallows around the head of the dick. Bro's cock pulses and whoops this is too much for him he jerks his head back hard and gags, gasping and accidentally letting out light almost-retches. There is a string of drool between his lips and the head of Bro's cock, and, embarrassed, he tries to lap at and break it. The residue falls onto his chin.

He feels a burning in his forehead, looks up, and realizes Bro's gaze is searing down upon him.

"I expect you to take what I offer you as eagerly as though it be the word of God," he says, slow and clearly enunciated. His voice is dangerous.

Dave hardly has time to blink before he is tugged roughly forward again onto Bro's dick, half a muffled yelp escaping, and suddenly he's choking on the thrusted head of his cock, eyes watering and throat burning. His throat clenches and he reflexively tries to swallow, but all this does is swell his gag reflex only he can't move his head back any further, his tongue can't move, his lips are twitching and -

Dave gasps hugely, sucking in a desperate breath. His throat feels bruised but - and he does lift his hand to check - nothing has touched it all night, not really. No more than his pillow.

He gets lucid quicker every time now, and it's easy to identify exactly how not real that dream was, despite its utterly vivid nature. What confuses him still, though, is how exactly his reaction to that last part of the fantasy makes sense. He had been choking, desperate, breathless and abused. Might as well have been a nightmare.

And all his painfully erect boner can offer is the assurance that he is incredibly, incredibly aroused.

Truth wasn't stranger than fiction, not this time, but it had certainly been more confusing - perhaps unjustifiably so, but in the brief moment after the kiss, he could swear the inch between their still faces had been tangled with some potent braid of conflicting emotions, bound with invisible threads from all the what-if dream catchers spun into false realities dozens of dimensions away.

Or that might have been just him. "Well," Bro had breathed, or had it been an ordinary murmur, pursed lips and all? "We'll try this again on Friday."

And that was that. Dave had given in, lesson failed, and he was sent to his room not in punishment but to let his sins drip off him in silence as Bro finished the tarts himself.

Tuesday there is no lesson.

Wednesday he goes over to John's for the first time in years. They do homework and hold a handstand contest like old times. Neither of them win. John puts on Con Air and Dave spaces out behind his shades. Falls asleep with a craving for tarts. Doesn't even notice John's snores.

Thursday Bro switches tacks and tells him they need to focus on altering his sleep habits, because that's where he receives the most bother from his desire. They sit together in front of his computer in the front of the house, looking up tactics for dreamless sleep. Make a list, print it out, pin it to the bulletin board by the kitchen. They will start strifing in the evenings again. Dual lessons: restraint of contact, and learning to sleep more soundly. It brings back images from when Dave was young, and Bro was a 'warrior priest' to his friends. He had imagined various unrealistic scenarios of how or why Bro was so good in the art of combat. Determined to be just as good as him. It had taken a while to become old enough to realize that he wasn't a warrior, and if Bro ever was, he had stopped being so long ago. The fights had only been to teach young Dave self-defense.

Bro picks up his old guitar in his study after Dave goes to bed that night. Mingled in memories of the past, he imagines he is playing him to sleep like he used to. Wakes up with a searing ache the upper-left cavity of his chest. Is quiet at church that day.

Friday Bro drives Dave out to a pick-your-own orchard in Granbury. He gets lost in an extremely vivid daydream involving an expansive farm like this one, in the midst of fruit trees or maybe a cornfield. The sweat from the beating sun makes his skin slick and ass easier to penetrate. He delays the inevitable sharing with Bro until the end of dinner, after they arrive home that night. Bro is silent for a moment, then mutters, "Christ, kid." Furrows his brow. "Next time we'll just go to the store."

They stay up until midnight making the next batch of tarts. Bro does most of the work. For some reason it's not nearly as much of a temptation as last time. The preparation is essentially silent, except for the coaching Dave receives when he stirs the filling wrong, pinches the dough too tight, et cetera. These times when Bro's hands cover his he doesn't react. He just lets his eyes close a bit and enjoys it. He isn't sure if this counts as an improvement or not, but when all they can do is finished, Bro announces that he'll complete the final touches tomorrow morning, then pats his shoulder and says "Good job."

He doesn't recall dreaming that night, but wakes up drenched in an inexplicable contentment.

* * *

Notes: Fun fact: They fill the tarts with strawberries from actual pick-your-own Fall Creek Farms in Granbury, Texas.


	6. Reaction

Training is wonderful and Dave is altogether growing certain that he's either a terrible person or a masochist.

Either way, Bro has been true to his word, and they've been strifing multiple nights a week since the Tuesday after the bake sale. It feels really, really good to get his muscles working again - he can feel his body remembering past fights and accelerating to relearn and rememorize every movement and every parry. To help make sure he doesn't have too much of a disadvantage, he exercises or stretches or meditates with Bro a lot of the time now. When he glances back at his ticked-off schedule, he realizes that he's spending almost all of his time with his brother now. He doesn't mind at all.

Because they're on church property, the fights don't occur on the lawn or anything like that. But of course the house won't work either, and they don't have a garage. Instead, they strife on the flat rooftop behind the shingle-tiled housefront. It is essentially the back corner of the lot, not visible from any other building there. This gives them the freedom to take their lessons out in the sun, no need to hide from deacons or neighbors.

Strifing these days brings back a thrill he's not ever sure was fully realized in his youth. And he does sleep deeper, and concentrate better. A lot of the acolyte training has been passed on to Father Egbert, so that Dave doesn't get distracted from trying to learn it from Bro. He's been doing well, he thinks. Getting all his energy out in afternoon strifes allows him to concentrate better at masses, too. He'll hang out with the other altar boys sometimes, generally when John is involved. It tends to result in the two of them watching shitty movies that John somehow genuinely enjoys. He doesn't mind. Deacon Egbert is actually pretty cool, and he's always making or baking things for the boys. John complains that Dave eats way more of his father's food than he does, and yet is somehow eternally skinnier than him. Dave lifts his shirt to show off the slightly defined muscles on his wiry torso and John reddens and groans. Mr Egbert just laughs and congratulates him.

He thinks he might actually be growing really happy.

He's fit, he sleeps better, he's closer with the other boys, he's got a good relationship with church. He's even been writing more raps. None as personal as the last - that idea is banished to the far grottos of his mind. But they are turning out pretty good. He's been bookmarking bible verses that he likes or that speak to him, and elaborating on them with beat-bound lyric. He likes the way they turn out. Last week he showed a couple to Deacon Egbert while John was doing chores. He seemed pretty impressed, and even attempted to compose a little ditty on piano to give him a base tune for one. Maybe, just maybe, this whole brother-lust crisis came up to force him onto a new track. Maybe it was a part of God's plan after all. Maybe he really could move on for the better.

And then the day of the car wash happens.

It is, conveniently, especially hot that day, even when Bro wakes him in the early morning to strife out of schedule. The other weekly fundraising events so far haven't been the younger crowd's responsibility - they've ranged from selling CDs of the choir to inviting the seniors over for a charity bingo event. Today, however, it's the kids' turn again.

The Catholic Church doesn't support lustful temptation or anything like that. But it does support good marketing. And when your particular church boasts an impressive collection of young, good-looking teenage boys committed to doing the work of God... well, putting them in a situation where they tend to end up shirtless and wet and squeezing bubble-heavy sponges is just very good marketing. It has become tradition to put together a big ol' car wash every year when it is time to fundraise. It usually ends up being their most popular event.

Bro has suggested that they have an extra strife this morning so that they can make use of the cool hoses and such to have a particularly refreshing cool-down that afternoon at the car wash. Dave is hardly protestant. The strifes are becoming his favorite part of the day.

They are still using the wooden practice swords, just for the purpose of avoiding explanations should Dave gain any harmlessly sliced skin. He doesn't remember exactly what he dreamt about that night - he rarely does any more - just that it was a colorful tangle of some sort of heat and weird twistedness. Possibly having something to do with a jungle. Or maybe that was just a metaphor.

Regardless, he prepares to get it out of his system, enjoying a brief whip of cool breeze as he takes his stance. It takes but an instant for the slashing to start, loud clocks of wood against wood as they battle. Strike, parry, parry, retreat, sidestep, lunge strike parry. Crack crack point (as Bro's sword scoldingly taps the side of his ribs) lunge. It is an easy rhythm to fall into, and one that somehow always manages to translate itself to beats in his mind. No rhymes or words to narrate it, but a steady thump, some sort of utterly street dance, nonexistent bass tingling his eardrums, sometimes dissonant harmonies from the wind that end up searing in unison for an especially loud hit of sword against sword. His brain has been granted excessive clarity today, perhaps because it is morning or perhaps because the breeze hasn't quite let up yet, allowing him fresh and crisp lungfuls of air as he moves. He is on par with Bro's every move, though nowhere near one-upping him, and soon somehow the battle shifts from swords'-length to close quarters.

Bro is gaining the upper hand now, and Dave thinks it might have something to do with the weird alchemical reaction happening in his body as the clear crisp cold of the air is being flooded with a prickly lava heat surge from his toes up. His lungs are a puzzling balance of frozen and on fire - how long have they been strifing, anyway? - and he becomes keenly aware of the sweat on his skin and the way Bro's body leans over him when he strikes. His hand is a bit numb but he still reacts automatically with parries the best he can, until suddenly his weapon is lost (clattered between their feet) and Bro is inches away from him, white marble and releasing coils of heat. One half of Bro's glasses has caught a glint from the sun and the white reflection renders it invisible. His cool-looking lips are still fully rendered in his vision though, and he can see that they're dried out from the wind. Bro licks his lips to moisten them and Dave is seized with an inexplicable urge to bite them. And then quick as the strike of a cobra the chance is stolen from him as suddenly Bro is behind him, his sword at Dave's throat, pressing against his Adam's apple.

Dave's muscles un-tense a bit, though his lungs are still closer to heaving than not. The tight wood against his throat makes it difficult to breathe but feels uneasily thrilling, and he shifts a bit against Bro, chin arching as he tries to twist his neck to look at his face. The remainder of wheat-gold stubble on his chin scratches Dave's cheek and he doesn't have a good angle but their lips are awfully close now and he's mindlessly considering taking advantage of that -

but there is a solid knock on the front door of their house, a story below them.

_Whoops._

Bro releases Dave and they both carry their swords over their shoulders and jog back down into the house. Bro directs Dave back to his room to change while he answers the door.

Dave lies on his bed and closes his eyes and catches his breath again and forgets that he's supposed to be disappointed when he wants little things like that. Instead idly visualizes an alternate ending.

It's a non incident. Or at least Bro treats it as such, by the manner of not pointing anything out at all. Did he even notice? Dave can't tell and doesn't care. He's still in an eternally good mood lately, and somehow the 'sin' part of his thoughts isn't really connecting. If he were acknowledging, he might be brushing it off as learning how to ignore brief temptations rather than fall into anxiety over them. Which could be true.

Except for then... the car wash.

Bro doesn't actually usually participate in the car washes. He's not a part of the youth group or anything like that - that's all dealt with by Jake, who always joins the boys in stripping down and soaping up. Mr Egbert is there to deal with the customers and collect the money, dressed as usual. Bro usually is doing other things.

Not this time.

Jake has apparently decided to make it his personal interest to get Bro to join in this time. He leads Bro out of the church and down to the drive with both his hands on his shoulders. Four of the relatively unoccupied boys glance over and at least three of them instantly respond to his appearance by straightening their shoulders and tightening their cores. With an open short sleeve button down, shorts, and sandals, Jake may technically be showing more skin than Bro, but the altar boys who didn't live with the Strider can't be faulted in their reaction - clad in faded denim low riders, worn tan pointed-toe leather boots, and a cowboy hat, Bro's body is, for once, in open view and it is very obvious that between he and anyone else in the church, his strength would win.

Dave shifts stares between the envious altar boys and the frowning, uncomfortable-looking Bro. His broad shoulders are ever so slightly hunched and large hands tucked to his sides between crossed arms that fold over his chest (though not enough to hide his narrow but plank-hard abdomen).

Once they have both properly joined the crowd (the line of cars has extended by at least three at the boys' neglect), Jake announces that Bro will be directing their washing, and that he would also serve as a drier-offer for the cars post-rinse. He stands underneath the canvased structure on the sidewalk, just in front of the supply table, and shades his eyes with a tight expression, though his glasses and hat should be casting a perfectly suitable shadow over his sight. Dave's neck heats up for some reason and he ducks back behind the minivan he is washing again to continue scrubbing at a spot that's already been cleaned.

A small group of boys has migrated to a couple of middle-aged women who seem to be curious as to what the fundraiser is all about. The rest have moved on to the next car. Dave dutifully shifts around to the far side of the van and soaps up the dirty windows that haven't been touched yet. What Bro does for the church is none of his business.

Except that he realizes that there is a torso against the car directly across from his window on the other side, and it's Bro's. And that Jake English is leaning over the front of the car, scrubbing the lights there, and reaching to clasp Bro's arm as he towels off the remaining water from the already washed passenger's side window.

He lingers for far too long, long enough for Jake to hop back on to the sidewalk and for Bro to work his way around the car's rear bumper and up next to him. He crouches down immediately to scrub at the tire, not eager to be caught slacking.

Bro doesn't say anything to him, just nods curtly in greeting before stretching up to towel dry the top edge of the van. Dave stares at his elongated back, the arching of his slightly outlined stomach planes. The long angular swoop of his hip bone. Fumbles with his sponge around the side mirror. Bites the corner of his lip. Shit.

It occurs to him then that if he wants to keep doing as well as he has been, he has to tell Bro when he's experiencing temptation. Well, he's experiencing temptation all right. He glances away, sliding a lathered cloth through the door handle. Mutters (maybe he won't hear) "Guess it's another lesson on temperance today."

Bro hears.

Stares at him briefly as though trying to figure it out - _like it's not obvious?_ - then finally shows a noise of recognition. "... Pop quiz, I suppose." His voice is gruff, accent thicker than normal. He doesn't want to be out here. His shoulders are a little more relaxed now, though, and Dave dares to wonder if his comment allowed Bro some needed distraction. He decides to test it and moves closer to Bro, brushing up against him just a bit as he slides his sponge up and down the rim of the door. Bro wears the same flat expression, but doesn't protest or move away. Allows the contact. Even brushes against him slightly by accident himself.

Then Dave remembers the cars are not empty and quickly moves away to drop his sponge and cloth back into the bucket, walking it to the next car.

After the next hour, Jake organizes all the boys into teams.

"Tanning, you're a drier. Duncan and Ivan, you work on tires and mirrors. Dirk and Tanning, you can choose whoever to be washers for you! Although I already know you'll pick your lil' man first, Strider." He winks at Bro, and Dave reminds himself that violence is against the Christian creed.

It goes along pretty steadily, the wash getting even more crowded and as popular as every year. Dave refills the solution when it gets too dirty, soaps up a sponge to wash all the smooth surfaces, and pours from the bucket (or grabs a nearby hose) to rinse it down. He's not as tall as Bro and has to stretch to reach the highest parts, but overall his movements are limber and rhythmic. Bro follows with an occasionally-replaced dry towel and rubs circles down until all that remains is a scattered light coat of what might be spare raindrops. Dave watches Bro distractedly until he stumbles over a bucket and sloshes dirty water on his jeans, which he continually has to roll up further. _Rinse and repeat._

It isn't that bad, he decides, later on as the sun begins to set. They've been brought brownies and snacks by local moms a few times, and because all of the movements are so repetitive, it's not too hard to have a half-naked Bro stretching and rubbing beside him. Except when he knocks his hat back to press even closer against the car (_oh God why couldn't he be pressing against Dave like that_) or tugs up the back of his jeans, or when he bends over the hood with one knee up and rear pockets straining to stretch over his ass. Or when he lumbers over to the shady area to wipe off his neck and take a bite of one of the fruits there. (An apple, of course.) Or when he gets a bit of left-over foam bubbles on his chest and has to carefully wipe it off.

At least every blast of a misaimed hose is an effective cold shower. Can't sport a boner in conditions like that.

Until, that is, the sun finally does set, and Deacon Egbert goes to order pizza, and the rest of the kids are messing around or filing inside to change, and Jake comes over to Bro and slings an arm around his waist. (He tried to go for the shoulder, Dave thinks, watching from the table where he counts their winnings, but couldn't make it because of the height difference.)

"Glad I made you suit up and join us citizens, cowboy?" he teases. "I gotta say, I think you really drew in the customers today!" He punched Bro in the stomach lightly with his free hand, other fingers still resting against his lower ribs.

Bro grumbles a bit, scratching at his own shoulder. "Gonna give me a sunburn, English." He and Dave are both fair-skinned, but Dave knows Bro doesn't burn, just gets a fuckton of freckles and maybe two shades tanner.

Jake chuckles. "For such a celebrity, you can be a real stickler, Strider. I hope you'll join us on more events sometime. You and me could be real good partners at all this, don't ya think?"

"I think monkeys had better stick with monkeys," retorts Bro, tilting his head back to crack his neck briefly and then looking around for a shirt. Jake tuts and lifts the cowboy hat off of Bro's head, placing it on his own.

"Hope ta see you around more anyways." He imitates twirling guns with his hands, folded into dorky pointer-finger-pistols, then tosses a wink and a grin his way.

Dave scrapes the metal collection tin shut loudly. Jake and Bro both glance his way.

"What's the loot, cowboy?"

"Haven't got to the change yet," says Dave, moving to stand. "But I tallied it on the card." He stares at Bro insistently through both of their shades. Bro raises a brow very slightly, then turns to Jake.

"Why don't you round up the boys, then, _cowboy_, and we'll get cleaned up and changed."

"Best show up early if y'all want your favorite pizza, Striders!"

But he trounces away pleased enough with the money tin, and Bro starts up a walk around the side of the church. Dave follows him in stride, trying to subtly peel off small flakes of skin from his shoulder. He does burn.

Bro takes off his boots by the door, running his fingers through his hair, and starts lumbering to the bathroom. Dave calls out to stop him.

"Hey."

He pauses, looks over his shoulder, shifts a bit to frown at him with folded arms. "What?"

"Today." Why can't looks communicate sentences? That would far more convenient. "I did good."

Bro's brow furrows just a millimeter, but Dave can tell he knows to what he is referring.

"Yeah, you did fine. And?"

The unbidden image of Jake touching Bro's arm flicks into view on his mental projector screen. Jake who didn't earn it. Not like Dave had worked to. "I can do better."

Bro breathes a soft snort, and Dave's confidence flickers for a second. "Better like this morning?"

So he did notice. "Better like better than this morning." Dave frowns. "I didn't do anything, either."

"Interruptions." Bro turns back and walks into the bathroom, switching on the light. He starts unbuttoning his jeans. Dave follows him to the doorway.

"Okay, but I can do better. Without interruptions." Bro's already placed his glasses on the counter, Dave notices. He can see his eyes in the mirror. They look more thoughtful than his words sound. He spurs on. Toes off his shoes, leaves them on the carpet. Takes his own shades off, folds them, slides them into the corner of the mirror and the wall. "I can prove it."

Bro reaches in and tugs at the shower knob, turning on the flow of water. He screws it to the left, waiting for it to heat up. "Uh huh. And how's that?"

Dave's heel nudges the door to a quiet click shut behind him.

"Try me."

* * *

Notes: Fun fact: Bro and Dave share a bathroom. It's a two-bedroom one-bath house, except one of the bedrooms is an office/den. The other goes to Dave.


	7. Sensation

Notes: A short one-scene chapter as a Christmas present to you all. Happy holidays~! (PS: If you like JohnDave, go check out my new fic, "Scratch"!)

* * *

Bro is quiet for a moment. "And how do you expect me to do that?"

Dave suppresses a shiver, out of cold or nerves he doesn't know. Pauses, reaches down and hobbles a bit on each leg as he tugs off either sock, straightens and drops his jeans before he chickens out. Hesitates to meet Bro's eyes. Bro's expression is stoic, mouth in a thin line, but unclad eyes reveal something similar to the brief glints of surprise that might cross them on the rare occasion Dave gets in a near-disarming hit during a strife.

"Exposure therapy, right?" Dave pronounces with faux confidence, though a fine waver of uncertainty infiltrates his timbre.

"That's a whole different kind of exposure, kiddo," Bro retorts, seemingly automatically, though the expression in his eyes is still recovering.

Dave scowls, brushing him aside as he walks to the glass-doored enclosure. "I know that, I'm still wearing my boxers, aren't I?" He carefully sets one foot in, feels safe enough to plant the other, and turns around, standing at the edge of the stream of water, drops of it brisking his back.

"You've just been around me, looking at me, brushing by. Shirtless at a car wash, whatever. Strifing, the only thing cracking there are the swords. All of it's too ordinary. It won't fix anything. You haven't even touched me." Dave is sure he's growing red, but he can blame it on the steam. Bro's expression is utterly unreadable. "... That isn't exposure." He fights not to stumble over his words, takes a breath, and repeats his earlier demand.

"Try me."

There is a long pause. Dave holds his breath, wondering if he went too far. ...

The final response is gruff and untelling. "...Get in the kitchen."

Dave blinks. He realizes he hadn't known what reply he was expecting. Not that. "I... what?"

"Get in the kitchen," Bro repeats, pronouncing the words slowly.

Dave pauses, sidles out of the shower. Ignores the dripping. Is unsure whether to continue. "Should... I turn on the lights?"

"No."

He isn't instructed to re-dress himself, either, so he doesn't. Instead (after pressing the faucet to off again) the brothers walk in silence down the hall to the kitchen.

"Sit down," Bro instructs.

_What is this what is happening what is going on oh god am I being punished -_

"Put your hands out to your sides."

...

Dave obeys, staring at Bro with a faint hint of apprehension before realizing that neither of them are wearing their shades and quickly shifting his glance away. It is cold in here. Everything looks blue.

"Here's exposure therapy for you," says Bro, and Dave's throat seizes up in nervousness and some sick twist of eager. He eyes Bro again cautiously, who is looking at him with his lesson face on. That means 'pay attention.' He sits across from Dave, legs folded on the hardwood floor.

"I am going to stimulate your high-sensitivity areas." Dave isn't sure he's ever heard Bro's voice this soft before, and it intimidates and thrills him. The calm is eery. "Your job is to resist reaction. A touch is considered a tap out. I am going to push your buttons as excessively as I can; this is a test of how well you can handle it. If your hands touch me, or yourself, you lose."

His pulse leaps to take this in - his nod is belated and slightly dazed.

"Start now." It's hardly a whisper.

Dave closes his eyes. A flick on the shoulder. What? They snap open again.

"Eyes open," murmurs Bro, staring directly at him. "Can't make it easy for you."

Oh.  
He blinks nervously, forcing his rapidly avoidant gaze to not skitter away from Bro's as he leans closer. Bro hovers his head next to Dave's, pauses it there, breathing lightly, then deliberately blows cooly on his neck.

Dave's eyelids flutter as he only manages to restrain the second half of the resulting shiver. Bro carefully plants a hand beside Dave's hip - god damnit why had he taken his clothes off - to prop himself, the other hand lightly and curiously trailing (too slow to adjust to) across and down his shoulder and arm. He watches, breathless, Bro's golden irises unreadably following the path of his own fingers - then freezes when his eyes flit back up to Dave's.

He's caught in his headlights like a web, unable to tear himself away from what is surely his own destruction. Bro is nonchalant, frowning slightly in an almost painfully innocent, though subtle, curiosity. His hands are uncannily gentle, stroking down his neck thoughtfully, thumbing over the crook of it, then across to his collarbone, brow furrowing slightly at the hitch of breath that occurs when the edge of his thumb brushes across Dave's throat. He rubs very lightly at that spot experimentally, and Dave feels his lids flutter, then immediately refocus as Bro links his gaze to his own again. Suddenly Bro looks young, very young, eyes calm and amber like some sort of large cat, staring absorbantly at Dave as he strokes his throat tantalizingly.

And then he pushed him down onto the floor gently but firmly, exactly as Dave imagines a panther would thoughtfully pin down some hapless prey it hadn't yet decided was edible. His hands flinch forward and then he remembers he's not allowed to touch. Fuck that sounds hot like that in his head. No, nope, nopenopenopenope remain calm and focus on Bro's eyes.

Only the calm dominance there causes nothing but more fire licking at his insides, if a relatively quiet flame. Bro shifts back to reposition one leg, settling it to mirror the other on either side of Dave's hips, and he realizes he is effectively straddling him. How old is Bro, anyhow? Has he ever done anything like this for real before? He's a priest, but... Oh god how could he even be so calm this was the most incriminating position EVER. EVE-oh okay nope it could get more incriminating, like when Bro began to slide both hands slowly down Dave's sides, moving deliberately over each ribbed edge and fully palming the sides of his waist, pausing at the hips but only to place one hand down for support again so that the other could press deliberately at the hollow just inside his pelvic bone. The spot itself is nonsensitive, but his calloused digits so close to his miraculous non-boner elicit a tiny squirm from his torso, and another automatic half-reach of his hands before he catches himself once more. Bro notices this and begins to systematically drag his fingertip across that entire expanse of skin, just exactly along the waistband of Dave's boxers. It's way more stimulating than such a light touch ought to be, he's pretty sure.

Bro sits back, settling his weight at Dave's pelvis (fuck) so that he can lift his prop hand again, which he draws back to make the same spread-finger light strokes down Dave's thigh. His expression is detached and absorbed, even as Dave's knees reflexively jerk up - at which he takes the opportunity to slide his hand to the underside of his upper leg, pushing further upwards, under the hem of his boxers, tracing a circle on the skin just beneath the seam where both limbs meet. Aaaahh fuck - his hips jerk up, eyes shut, and at the realization that his reflex has essentially just shoved his ass into Bro's palm, he can't help his body's automatic wriggle of panic. His lidded eyes don't allow him to see, but he does feel Bro's weight shifting above him, and then a cautious and careful hand lightly wrapping around his throat, a knee between his legs, and a palm riding down his spine and to his tailbone, only to spread and firmly grip his right buttock, and his eyes fly open in surprise -

to see Bro's face, irises' gold piercing, directly above his own, angular and nonforgiving. "You're not looking," he murmurs, fingers' grip widening and flexing to massage the trapped cheek, thumb digging into the nerve just beneath his ass and other palm lightly pressing into his Adam's apple.

Dave looks. Forgets. And surges his head upwards, unsuccessfully, jerked back by the hand at his throat, failing to catch himself before he remembers that that's Not Allowed, but then it is made moot by Bro taking away the chance for him to screw up and kissing him first.

* * *

Notes: Fun fact: Dave is a boxers guy, but Bro always wears briefs.


	8. Communion

Notes: I apologize in advance for the shithole that is this lowly excuse for a chapter. I've been suffering from major writer's block for the past two months and nothing good's come of it. I'm gonna try and work up better quality for you guys as the next chapters come.

* * *

Communion had become something of a tradition in the Strider household. They didn't forego the ceremony at church, of course. But one evening a week they would hold their own communion, that Dave would be able to honor Christ's sacrifice in the privacy of only God's eyes.

God's, and his brother's.

He lets Bro do it this time.

It gets easier each time to receive the eucharist, and harder each time to perform the confession beforehand. He has developed the bad habit of ambiguity - whatever the least guilty way of saying he had dreamt of last night's performance as though it had been mutual, not a test. But he feels weirdly peaceful today, strangely and fervently convinced that all his desires are illusions, that it really is some demon gripping him, that his feelings aren't natural, that he himself is not made of sin any more than all humans are. So he surrenders his mouth to Bro, to offer him the bread and wine, and feels tired and dreamy and okay.

Bro performs his rites in the traditional manner - and Dave watches him, some vague sense of entrancement swimming underneath the calmness of feeling detached, and allows Bro to lift the cup to his mouth, swallowing the bitter wine, wondering if somewhere halfway down his throat the tissues could taste blessed blood.

He licks his lips and waits for the second half, jaw slackened slightly to accommodate his open and waiting mouth, watching his bro, tongue just verging the inner rim of his bottom lip. Bro's gloved hand rises to lightly press the bread to his tongue; he takes it in and lets some dissolve in his mouth, rolling it, chewing, swallowing, not moving. And it's because of his stillness that he happens to catch a rare glimpse of Bro's orange eyes behind his shades.

The clock stops.

Time seizes around him, and clarity surges into him, and himself externally might dismiss this as an affective experience resulting from mental withdrawal but no, he is here and awake and knows exactly what he's looking at because he's seen it so many times before. It's not that he's looking at Bro's eyes, because while unusual to the masses, the color fails to faze him as a Strider. On the contrary, it's this particular rendition thereof, because they are the very same, the very same exact fire-gold lick of them, and the very same deep burn-he's only got half a view of one eye and he can tell, can tell with the slash of his brow and the burgeoning unease in his iris, can tell because that's how he _feels_, that's how he feels each time when he's caught off guard, it's exactly how that eye looks aching in his chest-as his dreams. In his dream projection Bro's expression mirrors exactly what is carved into him in reality, and there's only one thing that fuels that.

Before his brain gears can start churning again time gets the jump on him, starts up right where it stops, and Bro is leaning back and it's like it never happened.

He's right back into himself then, and half can't remember the previous two seconds, just suddenly recalls his confession instead. Confessed that he'd enjoyed it, that he'd wanted more, the guilt, the guilt, the guilt. Refocuses his gaze - Bro was looking at him. His mouth curves in a small pensive frown.

"'Lil man," he begins, voice almost catching, somewhat gruff - "Just cos you're not supposed to feel these things..."

Something is dissipating around him again, maybe, but he isn't quite aware of it.

"... Just," (He swallows.) "Don't go thinkin' you're the only one. The church isn't divided between the sinners and the pure, all right? Everyone's tempted by things sometimes. Kids, youth, even clergymen."

"Are you?" God, again, again, stupid him, words falling out of his mouth before he knows he's saying them.

Bro just stares at Dave. It seems like a long time before his tongue again forms words: "You're not... alone, is just, what I'm saying..."

...and suddenly stands, leaving the room to close himself in his office.

And he realizes, just realizes, and looks upon last night in a fascinated sort of horror and intrigue, and all the nights before that, and he can't breathe, and he just barely manages to pick himself up to his room and throw himself on his bed before he starts heaving to cry, with what emotion he can't be sure.

It was a 'what-if' that he never even considered, never imagined, never mistaken his fantasies for any potential reality. And now they are born again, flocks of them, celebrating in his head, what-if-what-if-what-if-what-if-what-if, cawing like crows - triumphant, evil harbingers of temptation.

Because oh, oh he had felt so cruel inflicting his own satanic and juvenile desires upon his good brother, righteous man, stoic and pure priest. And suddenly everything has changed.

"Remember, August 3rd!" calls Jake as the boys file out of the room. John nudges him immediately, not even waiting until the hallway is relatively unstoppered.

"What's with the weird good mood?" he demands, elbowing Dave in the side.

Dave stares at him, distracted. "Huh?"

"You've totally been dreamy all day. What's got your ticker beamin'?"

Dave blinks. "Oh." What to say, what to say? He stared at a wall distantly. "...Hey, wanna have a camp out tonight?"

John laughs, but upon realizing Dave is serious, grows fondly thoughtful grin. "I dunno, you got any jars around? I don't know if I even have my tent anymore."

"There's always sticks and Spiderman blankets," Dave reminds him.

John snorts. "Very true. Movies?"

"Video games," he proclaims. "Old-school."

"How old school?"

"Maybe Sephiroth's battle scene from KH. Pacman. Definitely Pong."

"That's pretty old school."

"I know."

John chuckles again, then remains looking at him curiously. "Really though, what brought this on?"

Dave shrugs, looking vaguely upward. "I dunno. Summer, I guess."

"Summer?"

"Yeah. It's just... I like summer. Freedom and all that."

John dismisses him easily enough with a snicker and an 'if you say so, man,' but Dave is still off in his head for the walk back to his house. Summer is great, wow. He digs grass and fireflies and clear skies and long light warm nights and shit. Why hasn't he been realizing this before? Just because he is doing church stuff... Summer, though. Wow. What a good time.

And he should be spending time with John. They haven't really hung out together for a really really long time. They can fuck around like kids again. Bro would be pleased. He likes the Egberts.

* * *

Notes: Fun fact: The only reason the Egberts have Pong is because their TV set used to belong to Bro, who had hacked it on there despite not owning a legitimate copy of the game. ADDITIONAL NOTE: Sometimes I hear from someone who happened to see it on their dash that people were talking about this fic and I had nooo iddeeaaaaa. I really love to see that stuff and I track the tag "#withos" if you ever want to post anything about it!


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